@Raven: aw, it's nice to see Donagut have a whiff of luck sometimes! Interesting way to combine all cards again, I'm impressed.

Thanks for reading! I was really happy with how it came together. And as for Donagut's luck, well, every dog has his day!

@Brentain: Has Blink finally bitten off more than she can chew? Is Lawrence the man to stop her murderous rampage? Is Oswyn going to find a way to get them all killed? Find out next time, same Blink time, same Blink channel!

I'm really liking how this story is developing, and it will be interesting to see what Lawrence and Koltar put together for her. It's interesting knowing what we know (or what we think we know, at least) because the logical assumption for the bodyguards are that their charge is her target, but our suspicions suggest otherwise.

Thanks for posting!

@Orcish: I like this piece a lot. I think my favorite part was trading the horse for the blade. That made me smile. I thought for a while that this might have been set on Thorneau, but "Drakeston" sounded more like Fiora than Thorneau. The captain's mental notes to chastise Kett reminded me a lot of Jackie, specifically in "Mistakes of the Past" when she makes a mental note to speak to Saris and Noraa about reloading simultaneously. I like it!

More cool stories this week! I'm really enjoying what everyone has been sharing!

@ Raven -- I love this quasi-origin-story for our dogged detector, and his gruff-yet-lovable captain! There are a ton of great moments, but I especially love Donagut's line about the difference between show magic and real magic -- my mind immediately flashed to Nasperge, trying to imagine his reaction. And the whole story put me in mind of one of my favorite episodes of Columbo -- the one where Johnny Cash guest-starred as the killer. It ends with Columbo confronting Cash alone in the forest, at night, and, after he confesses, and Columbo is about to take him back to the station, Cash kind of looms over him, and says something to the effect of, "aren't you at all scared, being alone out here with a killer?" Something about Nallry's performance put me in mind of that, for some reason. Anyway, I always love watching those two play off of each other -- thanks so much for sharing!

@ Brentain -- I love how this story is progressing, too! This scene puts me in mind of a different moment, which I also love -- in this case, the one at the beginning of "From Russia, With Love," when SPECTRE Number 5 is explaining the plan to use James Bond to steal the cipher machine to Blofeld. Blofeld says, "What makes you think that the British Secret Service will go along with a plan that is so obviously a trap?" And Number 5 says, "Precisely because it is so obviously a trap. My reading of the British mentality is that they always regard a trap as a challenge." And that was the line that I heard in my head as soon as our bodyguards -- veteran or otherwise -- started discussing the notion of accepting Blink's invitation. DON'T GO, FELLAS! DON'T GO!

(Apologies to you both for my weird, associational brain. These tangents are just how my mind works, I swear! )

“Don’t worry,” I said. “My morals have improved since then. On the margins, at least.”

Ha! That and the "I'd just pull left" are my favorite lines Neat little piece, I like it!

Thanks for reading, and for the kind words! I like those parts, too. I love the idea that the captain has become so habituated to the off-balance blade that she'd swing a balanced blade wrong after all these years.

@Orcish: I like this piece a lot. I think my favorite part was trading the horse for the blade. That made me smile. I thought for a while that this might have been set on Thorneau, but "Drakeston" sounded more like Fiora than Thorneau. The captain's mental notes to chastise Kett reminded me a lot of Jackie, specifically in "Mistakes of the Past" when she makes a mental note to speak to Saris and Noraa about reloading simultaneously. I like it!

Yeah, apparently Drakeston is on Fiora. Funnily enough, I just swiped the name off a card, since it seemed like the sort of run-down place where you might find a pawnbroker, and it turned out -- from consulting the wiki after the fact -- that the name is actually Drakeston, not "Drakestown," as it appears on the card, so I had to go back and fix that. Also, it turns out that, apparently, Drakeston was totally destroyed in some Dack Fayden comic, so maybe it wasn't such a good choice, after all. If I had the story to do over, I'd change the location reference. I agree that Thorneau would be a good fit! Or Dammerdall, maybe.

And, yeah, I like the part about the horse, too.

Somehow, I suspect that the unnamed captain is more bark than bite when it comes to enforcing proper protocol for the squires. So I kind of doubt that whatever she eventually does about those "note for later" sort of things will be too harsh.

@Brentain: Has Blink finally bitten off more than she can chew? Is Lawrence the man to stop her murderous rampage? Is Oswyn going to find a way to get them all killed? Find out next time, same Blink time, same Blink channel!

@ Brentain -- I love how this story is progressing, too! This scene puts me in mind of a different moment, which I also love -- in this case, the one at the beginning of "From Russia, With Love," when SPECTRE Number 5 is explaining the plan to use James Bond to steal the cipher machine to Blofeld. Blofeld says, "What makes you think that the British Secret Service will go along with a plan that is so obviously a trap?" And Number 5 says, "Precisely because it is so obviously a trap. My reading of the British mentality is that they always regard a trap as a challenge." And that was the line that I heard in my head as soon as our bodyguards -- veteran or otherwise -- started discussing the notion of accepting Blink's invitation. DON'T GO, FELLAS! DON'T GO!

That's not entirely off the table, of course. But will curiosity get the better of them? Are they overestimating their own chances? Would Blink even let them go that easily?

The thirteen suns were blazing, and the mountainous road felt like a skillet beneath the lone soldier’s feet. Valk did not stop walking as he pulled out a water skin and took a long drink. He then poured a bit more of the precious water onto his right hand, then ran that hand through his long, blond hair, hoping to cool off his head a little and perhaps wash out just a bit of the dirt and dust from the road. He had been walking for seven days now, and as the road had started climbing upward into the mountains, the way had been getting harder. But it also meant he was nearing his destination.

Gilmmerpost.

The distant outpost, commanded by and named after the fourth of the late King’s five sons, was now too remote to see much action. During the King’s early reign, it had apparently seen its share of the fighting, but after the famine had struck the lizards’ homeland and all but won the war for the humans, there were no more enemies left to defend against. Prince Gilmmer, the least liked and least trusted of the King’s sons, had been put in command mostly to keep him out of the way. The prince had renamed it after himself immediately, and manned its walls with whatever mercenaries he could afford.

Valk smiled. That was, after all, the only reason he had a job.

Some called Valk a mercenary. Some called him a soldier of fortune. Some called him a scoundrel, and many called him things that should not be repeated. But whoever was handing him the most coin called him loyal. Armies come and go, monarchs rise and fall, but gold was eternal. And Valk would fight for it as hard and as fervently as any man fighting for flags or walls or lords.

The soldier of fortune went to take another sip from his water skin but found it empty. With a sigh, he turned to his left and walked down the small hill, which was now beginning to grow quite steep, to the canal that flowed along the road. Soon, the mountain path would begin climbing sharply, and the canal would continue on without it, so it was good that Valk noticed his dwindling water supply now rather than in an hour or two.

As Valk was filling his water skins, he looked down the length of the canal back in the direction of Kraakas, the King’s city. Well, former King, anyway. It was well known throughout the kingdom that the former ruler had taken ill and died nearly three months ago. The Council now had the task of deciding which of his five sons would ascend to the throne. Valk’s lord, Gilmmer, had of course been at the bottom of that list. Valk had gone to Kraakas to see if anything could be done about that. He had left Kraakas a full four days before the courier carrying the Council’s decision would have, but travelling over the canal, he suspected the courier would overtake him any time now.

Valk had not been back on the road for even ten minutes when he heard the low whistle from the rocks ahead. He looked around quickly to make sure there were no other travelers on the road – few people ever travelled the road to Gilmmerpost – before cautiously approaching the rocks. There, as he expected, was Captain Landa, another mercenary from the post and his commanding officer. She was also the only one who knew why Valk had departed to the capital in the first place. Even Prince Gilmmer knew nothing of Valk’s mission.

“Well,” the captain asked expectantly. “How did it go?”

Valk smirked. “Let’s just say that you sent the right person, Captain.”

The soldier of fortune shrugged. “I’ve seen no one, but you know how these royals are. I mean, Gilmmer’s dense as the morning fog, but his brothers have spies everywhere. Nobody’s tried to kill me yet, and I was not exposed in the city, but odds are I’m on somebody’s hit list right about now.”

Captain Landa’s smile faded, and she turned serious. “If you are, that means that somebody knows. How can we be sure it worked?”

“We won’t, at least not until the courier arrives. But I’m telling you, when he does, our good ol’ Prince Gilmmer will be the new monarch.”

Landa grinned again, widely. “That’s great! If Gilmmer is king, it puts you and me in a very good position. Either he’ll bring us along as his personal guard, a difficult but lucrative assignment, I might add…”

“As long as no one finds out,” the Captain repeated. “So, how did you do it, anyway? Even when we talked about it before you left, you were pretty vague on how you were going to get the Council to choose Gilmmer. You just said that you were certain that you could.”

“Oh, I just shuffled a few things around, you know? It’s surprisingly easy to confuse people, especially when they don’t think you’re a threat.”

“Hmm,” Landa said. After a long, thoughtful pause, she continued. “Well, anyway, even if it doesn’t work, we’ll still have our employment at Gilmmerpost.”

“Unless whichever of the Prince’s brothers that becomes king decides to cut him off. Kings, as a rule, have more gold than princes.”

“True, but…” she froze, then dropped to a crouch and indicated for Valk to do the same. He did, and a few moments later, the sound of a serpent surging through the waters of the canal roared past them. They waited for a long moment as the sound died down and then they stood up again. “The courier,” Landa said.

Valk nodded. “We’d best get back to the fort. I think the Prince may have some celebrating to do.”

“As long as nobody knows what happened in Kraakas,” Landa added as Valk turned to start walking down the road.

“Nobody but you and me, anyway.”

“Yes,” Landa added in almost a whisper. “Only you and me.”

Valk kept walking, but something wasn’t right. He could not quite put his finger on it, but he could sense it nonetheless. He felt Captain Landa catch up to him, walking just behind him, when all of a sudden his eyes grew wide. Without truly knowing why, Valk dropped to the ground as his sword flew from its sheath. Above him, just where his neck had been a moment earlier, the captain’s axe sliced through thin air. Without so much as turning around, Valk buried his sword into her gut. Looking up, he saw that her eyes had grown wide, too.

“Lucky I have a sort of sixth sense about these kinds of things,” he said, then twisted his sword, causing the traitorous captain to drop her axe. Valk climbed to his feet and looked her in the eyes. “You know, some people call me a soldier of fortune,” he said as he forced the captain, impaled on his blade, over to the edge of the road, her back to the canal below. “But I prefer to think of myself as a soldier of fate.” He grabbed the captain by the throat and placed one booted foot on her stomach, just beside his sword. “Well, my fate is as the king’s favored soldier. And yours is serpent food. You should have just trusted me, Captain.”

With that, he pushed her away with his foot and she dropped into the canal below. Valk shook his head and wiped off his blade before putting it back in his sheath. He calmly tossed the captain’s axe into the canal after her, then took another drink of water. Glancing up into the sky, he saw that two of the suns had set, leaving only eleven to scorch the road to Gilmmerpost. Valk smiled.

Hiss narrowed one eye and spat. She looked down at the deputy – a mousey-looking noggle in an oversized hat, who was gripping his six-shooter so tight it’d be a miracle if he could draw. Then she looked over at the goods store, where the deputy was looking, and where the jostling crowd was getting increasingly agitated.

Hiss took a bitterroot seed from her pocket and chewed it, then adjusted her hat.

“There’s going to be trouble,” the deputy said again.

“I heard you the first time,” Hiss said, and spat. She fixed her hat again, blocking the worst of the sun.

“But there is going to be trouble,” the nog insisted.

“Yep,” Hiss said.

“Aren’t you going to do anything?”

“Nope,” Hiss said.

The noggle looked gobsmacked. “Why not?” he said.

Hiss spat out the seed husk, and just missed the small pile on the dusty ground. The rattler took another seed from her pocket and sucked on it.

Up above, the Jakkard sun was broiling. Even with the brim of her hat, and the shade of the station awning, Hiss was baking in her scales. And, as she watched the scene developing in town, she could figure that the heat wasn’t improving the mood of the prospectors, either. The 12:15 from Dayko had arrived bang on time, disgorging its load of antsy prospectors onto Fortune’s only street just at the peak of the midday sun. The smart prospectors had collected their gear from the luggage car, and set off into the hills, looking to stake their claims before the rest of the mob caught up. Those prospectors less gifted with foresight had made a beeline for the goods store, where the fox proprietor – a real gray-furred dandy, in suspenders and spats – was selling shovels and picks for twenty boks a piece. Those prices had gotten the crowd sour – a shovel and pick could’ve been had in Dayko for hardly a tenth of what the fox charged – and it hadn’t taken long for the murmurs to start. Then the fox had run out of shovels and picks, and the murmur had turned to a rumble. The fox was on top of his counter, now, trying to shoo the unsatisfied customers out with broad sweeps of his arms. Meanwhile, in the crowd that had gathered outside, Hiss caught a glimpse of iron appearing in prospectors’ hands – and not in the form of shovels or picks.

“You have to do something,” the deputy said.

“Nope,” Hiss said. “Not my business.”

“I thought you Bowlertons were supposed to be tough.”

“We are,” Hiss said. “Tough, and expensive. And, last I checked, you weren’t paying my bills.” She spat her seed husk at the pile, and missed. “Not unless the sheriff bought the railroad when I wasn’t paying attention.”

The deputy made to draw his pistol, which stuck in its holster as he tried to pull it out. The hammer was caught on a belt loop. As he fumbled for the gun, Hiss had half a mind to take it away, before he hurt himself – or someone else.

“How long you been with the company?” the noggle said.

“With the Bowlertons?” Hiss flicked her tongue in the air. “About six years.”

“And were you in Verkell, what, five years back?” the nog said. “For the bread riots?”

“Nope,” Hiss said.

“Well, I was,” the noggle said, still trying to free his pistol. “And I’ve seen what happens when a mob like this gets going. Once the looting starts, you think they’ll stop with the goods store? These people want shovels, and picks. You know what’s inside that depot, just two blocks from here? Shovels, and picks. That’s railroad property, ain’t it?”

The pistol hammer was still caught in the noggle’s belt. Hiss swatted his hand aside, and pulled the gun out herself. The noggle held out his hand, but Hiss didn’t offer him the pistol. Instead, the rattler pointed the gun straight up in the air, and pulled the trigger, six times.

The sound of the shots froze the crowd like a basilisk. The angry rumble – which had been building to a violent crescendo – died away to nothing, leaving the street eerily quiet. From inside the goods store, the fox in suspenders and spats – who had covered his eyes when the gun went off – peeked out from behind his fingers.

“Store’s closed,” Hiss said, not having to shout to be heard through the silence. She dropped the deputy’s empty revolver to the ground, before unslinging her rifle. “So get.”

“Get?” The voice belonged to a one-horned minotaur, who elbowed his way to the front of the crowd, a pistol hanging loosely in his hand. “Get where?”

“The saloon,” Hiss said, shouldering her rifle. “The hotel. The whorehouse. Get back on the train, I don’t care.” She racked the lever, putting a round in the chamber. “You all came here to prospect, didn’t you? So get prospecting. The hills are out that way.” She cocked her head at the jagged horizon. “You won’t find any mana in town.”

“Suppose I don’t feel like going,” the minotaur said, lowering his single horn. “Suppose I feel like—”

Hiss pulled the trigger.

The crack of the rifle echoed down the dusty street. There was a sound of metal striking metal as the pistol jumped out of the minotaur’s hand, bent almost in half by the force of the bullet. The minotaur, meanwhile, made a kind of bellowing roar, more out of shock than pain. Then, as the shock wore off, he glanced down at his hand, bleeding from a dozen splinters, and, swearing a streak that would’ve shocked the angels up in all seven heavens – if the angels were still listening, which Hiss suspected they weren’t – the minotaur stuck his hand in his mouth, and sucked on a bloody finger.

“Sorry,” Hiss said, as she racked the lever again, putting a fresh bullet in the chamber. “For a minute there I was worried I was losing your attention.”

She looked over the minotaur’s shoulder, at the dumbstruck crowd. Few sets of eyes met hers – the prospectors were mostly looking at the ground. The flashes of iron she’d seen in hands only moments before had conspicuously disappeared.

“As I was saying,” Hiss said, “store’s closed. Now get.”

And, with that, the tension in the air broke, and the mob broke with it. The prospectors diffused from a single crowd into scores of small, chattering knots, which streamed off in all directions. Some headed towards the saloon – the only one in Fortune – where the off-tune strains of a player piano beckoned from the dark and cool interior, where the barkeep fox – a cousin of the one who owned the goods store – would relieve the newcomers of their boks just as surely as his kinsman had. Others climbed the steps up to the platform, where the train would take them back to Dayko. They’d be waiting some hours still, but at least they’d wait in the shade. A few prospectors actually trudged off in the direction of the hills, and Hiss wondered idly if they actually would try to dig up the Waste with their bare hands. Prospecting without kit was crazy, but, then, there was crystal mana in the hills, and mana did crazy things to people.

More likely, Hiss decided, these stragglers would head out on the trail of the better-prepared prospectors, and, if they caught up with them, out of sight of the town – and the law – would relieve them of their kit. After all, that was what Hiss would’ve done, if she were in their place. Lead was cheaper than gold.

Next to Hiss, the deputy noggle – who’d been stunned silent the whole time – had picked up his gun from the ground, and was trying to reload the cylinder. He was finding it tough going. His fingers were shaking.

“You didn’t have to do that,” the noggle said.

Hiss laughed. “You’re the one who wanted me to do something,” she said.

“Something,” the noggle said. “Not that.”

Hiss laughed again.

“What’d you have in mind?” she said. “A lot of ‘please’ and ‘thanks?’” She let the rifle drop, and popped another seed in her mouth. “I don’t go in for that stuff.”

“You’re a real sumbitch, aren’t you?” the deputy said. “That why they sent you all the way out here?”

“I am not without my charms,” Hiss said.

“Alright, then, Miss Charms,” the nog said. “What do you propose to do about that?” He pointed at the one-horned minotaur, who was still nursing his splintered hand. “You do realize you just made us both an enemy for life, right? Those bulls nurse their blood feuds. As soon as he can hold a pistol again, he’ll be coming for us.”

“Point taken,” Hiss said, and, snapping the rifle back to her shoulder, she shot the minotaur dead.

“Seven hells!” the noggle said, his fingers stuck belatedly in his ears. “He was unarmed!”

“I know,” Hiss said. She racked a bullet into the chamber.

“That’s murder!” the deputy said, much too loudly.

“Then charge me,” Hiss said. She spat out the seed husk, missing the pile. “The company’ll bail me, I’ll be on the next train back to Verkell, and you’ll be stuck here with this lot.” Her tongue flicked the air. “And you know those bulls and their blood feuds. Bad business, that. If anything, I’d say you need me around these parts, now more than ever.” The rattler grinned. “Wouldn’t you?”

@Soldier of Fortune: See, if those prospectors had grown up on Oregon Trail like I (and I presume you, Orcish) did, they would have known to bring everything they could possibly need with them ahead of time. You just cannot trust to find what you need once you get there.

I like the simmering mob mentality working the crowd up to what is approaching a frenzy, before our concerned citizen Hiss decides, for the good of everyone, I'm sure, to step (slither?) in and calm everyone down. You gotta love what passes for law in Jakkard. Granted, the Bowlertons aren't really the law, but from the apparent ineptitude of the deputy, Hiss seems to be about the closest thing to it. Of course, not enough lawmen in a mana-rush town? That's a mistake. Sort of Fortune's Folly, if you will...

The thirteen suns were blazing, and the mountainous road felt like a skillet beneath the lone soldier’s feet. Valk did not stop walking as he pulled out a water skin and took a long drink. He then poured a bit more of the precious water onto his right hand, then ran that hand through his long, blond hair, hoping to cool off his head a little and perhaps wash out just a bit of the dirt and dust from the road. He had been walking for seven days now, and as the road had started climbing upward into the mountains, the way had been getting harder. But it also meant he was nearing his destination.

Gilmmerpost.

The distant outpost, commanded by and named after the fourth of the late King’s five sons, was now too remote to see much action. During the King’s early reign, it had apparently seen its share of the fighting, but after the famine had struck the lizards’ homeland and all but won the war for the humans, there were no more enemies left to defend against. Prince Gilmmer, the least liked and least trusted of the King’s sons, had been put in command mostly to keep him out of the way. The prince had renamed it after himself immediately, and manned its walls with whatever mercenaries he could afford.

Valk smiled. That was, after all, the only reason he had a job.

Some called Valk a mercenary. Some called him a soldier of fortune. Some called him a scoundrel, and many called him things that should not be repeated. But whoever was handing him the most coin called him loyal. Armies come and go, monarchs rise and fall, but gold was eternal. And Valk would fight for it as hard and as fervently as any man fighting for flags or walls or lords.

The soldier of fortune went to take another sip from his water skin but found it empty. With a sigh, he turned to his left and walked down the small hill, which was now beginning to grow quite steep, to the canal that flowed along the road. Soon, the mountain path would begin climbing sharply, and the canal would continue on without it, so it was good that Valk noticed his dwindling water supply now rather than in an hour or two.

As Valk was filling his water skins, he looked down the length of the canal back in the direction of Kraakas, the King’s city. Well, former King, anyway. It was well known throughout the kingdom that the former ruler had taken ill and died nearly three months ago. The Council now had the task of deciding which of his five sons would ascend to the throne. Valk’s lord, Gilmmer, had of course been at the bottom of that list. Valk had gone to Kraakas to see if anything could be done about that. He had left Kraakas a full four days before the courier carrying the Council’s decision would have, but travelling over the canal, he suspected the courier would overtake him any time now.

Valk had not been back on the road for even ten minutes when he heard the low whistle from the rocks ahead. He looked around quickly to make sure there were no other travelers on the road – few people ever travelled the road to Gilmmerpost – before cautiously approaching the rocks. There, as he expected, was Captain Landa, another mercenary from the post and his commanding officer. She was also the only one who knew why Valk had departed to the capital in the first place. Even Prince Gilmmer knew nothing of Valk’s mission.

“Well,” the captain asked expectantly. “How did it go?”

Valk smirked. “Let’s just say that you sent the right person, Captain.”

The soldier of fortune shrugged. “I’ve seen no one, but you know how these royals are. I mean, Gilmmer’s dense as the morning fog, but his brothers have spies everywhere. Nobody’s tried to kill me yet, and I was not exposed in the city, but odds are I’m on somebody’s hit list right about now.”

Captain Landa’s smile faded, and she turned serious. “If you are, that means that somebody knows. How can we be sure it worked?”

“We won’t, at least not until the courier arrives. But I’m telling you, when he does, our good ol’ Prince Gilmmer will be the new monarch.”

Landa grinned again, widely. “That’s great! If Gilmmer is king, it puts you and me in a very good position. Either he’ll bring us along as his personal guard, a difficult but lucrative assignment, I might add…”

“As long as no one finds out,” the Captain repeated. “So, how did you do it, anyway? Even when we talked about it before you left, you were pretty vague on how you were going to get the Council to choose Gilmmer. You just said that you were certain that you could.”

“Oh, I just shuffled a few things around, you know? It’s surprisingly easy to confuse people, especially when they don’t think you’re a threat.”

“Hmm,” Landa said. After a long, thoughtful pause, she continued. “Well, anyway, even if it doesn’t work, we’ll still have our employment at Gilmmerpost.”

“Unless whichever of the Prince’s brothers that becomes king decides to cut him off. Kings, as a rule, have more gold than princes.”

“True, but…” she froze, then dropped to a crouch and indicated for Valk to do the same. He did, and a few moments later, the sound of a serpent surging through the waters of the canal roared past them. They waited for a long moment as the sound died down and then they stood up again. “The courier,” Landa said.

Valk nodded. “We’d best get back to the fort. I think the Prince may have some celebrating to do.”

“As long as nobody knows what happened in Kraakas,” Landa added as Valk turned to start walking down the road.

“Nobody but you and me, anyway.”

“Yes,” Landa added in almost a whisper. “Only you and me.”

Valk kept walking, but something wasn’t right. He could not quite put his finger on it, but he could sense it nonetheless. He felt Captain Landa catch up to him, walking just behind him, when all of a sudden his eyes grew wide. Without truly knowing why, Valk dropped to the ground as his sword flew from its sheath. Above him, just where his neck had been a moment earlier, the captain’s axe sliced through thin air. Without so much as turning around, Valk buried his sword into her gut. Looking up, he saw that her eyes had grown wide, too.

“Lucky I have a sort of sixth sense about these kinds of things,” he said, then twisted his sword, causing the traitorous captain to drop her axe. Valk climbed to his feet and looked her in the eyes. “You know, some people call me a soldier of fortune,” he said as he forced the captain, impaled on his blade, over to the edge of the road, her back to the canal below. “But I prefer to think of myself as a soldier of fate.” He grabbed the captain by the throat and placed one booted foot on her stomach, just beside his sword. “Well, my fate is as the king’s favored soldier. And yours is serpent food. You should have just trusted me, Captain.”

With that, he pushed her away with his foot and she dropped into the canal below. Valk shook his head and wiped off his blade before putting it back in his sheath. He calmly tossed the captain’s axe into the canal after her, then took another drink of water. Glancing up into the sky, he saw that two of the suns had set, leaving only eleven to scorch the road to Gilmmerpost. Valk smiled.

This day was getting better and better.

I love that you took my stupid typo and ran with it. You're a prince among men, Raven.

I love the callback to the flavor text on Soldier of Fortune, here. And I confess to being totally deked-out on which direction the story was going. Once you mentioned that there were five princes, I kept trying to figure out how a sixth one would arrive on the scene -- probably named something that sounds an awful lot like "sense." YOU'VE MADE ME PARANOID FOR PUNS, RAVEN. I SEE THEM AROUND EVERY CORNER!

(Also, I confess that I shiver a little each time Valk takes a drink from the canal. I've seen too many pictures of Venice. )

Anyway, I feel like the lesson -- as Jackie would put it -- is don't get greedy. When you've got a nice little scheme going, just keep it going! It's when you try to grab that little bit extra that things always start to go wrong. Feels like Landa could have used that advice.

Thanks so much for sharing, Raven! I continue to marvel at your ability to use all the cards.

(Semi-related tangent time: Something about the image of the courier passing Valk on the way back from the council reminds me of the story about Dionysius the Elder, Tyrant of Syracuse, and his death. When he wasn't busy being the tyrannical ruler of a city-state, Dionysius fancied himself something of a playwright, and apparently wasn't half bad. According to legend, Dionysius's death was precipitated by the fact that a play he'd written -- "The Ransom of Hector" -- won the top prize at the Lenaia festival at Athens. One of the extras in the play -- realizing that whoever was the first person to bring Dionysius the news of his victory would likely receive a considerable reward -- rushed from Athens to Syracuse as quickly as possible, getting ahead of the official news. When Dionysius learned about his victory, he threw a celebratory party which lasted for multiple days, during which Dionysius -- flush with triumph -- quite literally drank himself to death. So, good news travels fast, but not always for the best.)

@Soldier of Fortune: See, if those prospectors had grown up on Oregon Trail like I (and I presume you, Orcish) did, they would have known to bring everything they could possibly need with them ahead of time. You just cannot trust to find what you need once you get there.

Confession time: I was *terrible* at Oregon Trail. My wagon train died every single time. We never made it!

I like the simmering mob mentality working the crowd up to what is approaching a frenzy, before our concerned citizen Hiss decides, for the good of everyone, I'm sure, to step (slither?) in and calm everyone down. You gotta love what passes for law in Jakkard. Granted, the Bowlertons aren't really the law, but from the apparent ineptitude of the deputy, Hiss seems to be about the closest thing to it. Of course, not enough lawmen in a mana-rush town? That's a mistake. Sort of Fortune's Folly, if you will...

Thank you for reading! I'm glad you enjoyed it! Once it occurred to me that we already had a town named Fortune, I kind of ran with the idea from there, and, while I had maybe a larger story in mind at first, I sort of ran out of time and puff. But I at least like this as a sort of glimpse into Hiss's formative years -- it's not hard to trace the line from her here to the Bowlerton chief in Red Sky who casually suggests shooting all the homesteaders as a practical solution to the mayor's problems. (Which reminds me that I really do need to finish Red Sky one of these days...)

I love that you took my stupid typo and ran with it. You're a prince among men, Raven.

Typos are like a muse to me. Here's some food for thought (which contains story spoilers for a few random stories, so I'll toss it in a spoiler block):

Spoiler

Gale wouldn't be home right now if not for a typo. It's true! See, it was a typo that Keeper made that led me to create Jade. But, in order to create Jade and explain why she's made of living rock, I had to create Raiker Venn. Raiker Venn is the first of the M:EM characters to interact with Gale, which started a chain of events leading her to meet Penelophine, find herself on Vegante, run afoul of Blink, find herself on Thorneau, and meet Denner. All because Keeper typed "I think I'm becoming a jade planeswalker" instead of "jaded."

In that same conversation, Keeper said of me: "Your sorcerous powers of converting dumb things into good stories know no bounds."

I love the callback to the flavor text on Soldier of Fortune, here. And I confess to being totally deked-out on which direction the story was going. Once you mentioned that there were five princes, I kept trying to figure out how a sixth one would arrive on the scene -- probably named something that sounds an awful lot like "sense."

Funnily, I had originally made Gilmmer the fifth out of six sons, but I didn't like the way "King's six sons" sounded, so I changed it to fourth of five. I actually hadn't thought of turning it all into a sixth sense pun. Of course, if I had, I'd have slipped it right in there, because that's golden, right there.

(Also, I confess that I shiver a little each time Valk takes a drink from the canal. I've seen too many pictures of Venice. )

I had debated lampshading this after Valk dumps Landa's body in the canal, but opted not to. I suspect that this canal is a bit cleaner than those in Venice, but not necessarily. Either way, it's probably not the best option available to our hero.

Anyway, I feel like the lesson -- as Jackie would put it -- is don't get greedy. When you've got a nice little scheme going, just keep it going! It's when you try to grab that little bit extra that things always start to go wrong. Feels like Landa could have used that advice.

Funny how many of the bad guys fall prey to this. It's almost like they haven't read the other stories or something!

(Semi-related tangent time: Something about the image of the courier passing Valk on the way back from the council reminds me of the story about Dionysius the Elder, Tyrant of Syracuse, and his death. When he wasn't busy being the tyrannical ruler of a city-state, Dionysius fancied himself something of a playwright, and apparently wasn't half bad. According to legend, Dionysius's death was precipitated by the fact that a play he'd written -- "The Ransom of Hector" -- won the top prize at the Lenaia festival at Athens. One of the extras in the play -- realizing that whoever was the first person to bring Dionysius the news of his victory would likely receive a considerable reward -- rushed from Athens to Syracuse as quickly as possible, getting ahead of the official news. When Dionysius learned about his victory, he threw a celebratory party which lasted for multiple days, during which Dionysius -- flush with triumph -- quite literally drank himself to death. So, good news travels fast, but not always for the best.)

@Soldier of Fortune: See, if those prospectors had grown up on Oregon Trail like I (and I presume you, Orcish) did, they would have known to bring everything they could possibly need with them ahead of time. You just cannot trust to find what you need once you get there.

Confession time: I was *terrible* at Oregon Trail. My wagon train died every single time. We never made it!

Naw, Oregon Trail is easy! I beat it just now (well, just before I started typing this message - Thank you, Archive.org). I brought you and some other M:EMbers along. Brentain got three different broken arms, and you got Typhoid right near the end, but we all made it.

The details are open to debate, since first-hand accounts have mostly been lost to history. But the fact that he died after his play won is established, and I like to think that the story's true.

Probably moving further into the realm of myth, I love Mary Renault's account that Dionysius had been warned by an oracle that a great victory would precede his death, and that this was why he never attempted to totally conquer Carthage, fearing that this would be the foretold victory. But, in the same way that oracles often spoke in riddles, the "great victory" which eventually sealed his fate wasn't one won on the battlefield, but instead on the stage, when his tragic play took the prize in Athens.

I didn't expect to write quite this much with this one (about 3200 words) but I'm pretty happy with the way this turned out. I hope everyone enjoys!

To Prove Them Wrong

To Prove Them Wrong

Vhara stared at the poster, irises the color of cold steel quivering in rage. The big bold typography splattered across the top, the gorgeous (and likely expensive) painting occupying the center, and the insulting, infuriating, insufferable paragraph below it, all of it struck Vhara like a poisoned arrow to her heart.

“Those bastards,” the Vedalman said through clenched teeth. She brought one hand up and laid it against the poster. Just as she did, two full-blooded Vedalken in the armor of the city constabulary turned the corner and walked in her direction. Vhara rested her hand on the poster as if casually reading, and the full-bloods, as usual, barely cast a glance in her direction as they passed by on their patrol.

As soon as they turned the next corner, Vhara violently ripped the poster off the wall and took off in a run toward the nearest alley.

* * *

Vhara slammed the torn poster down on the table, then slammed herself down in the chair beside it. The others in the clubhouse looked up at her briefly before returning to whatever they had been doing. The only one who paid any more attention was Tikori, the human thief who had been Vhara’s first and longest-standing friend in the club and in the city. Her eyes, the only part of Tikori’s face left uncovered by her ever-present mask, darted down at the table momentarily before locking onto Vhara’s.

“What’s eating you?” The thief asked.

“This city,” Vhara snarled, then sighed. “Like always.”

Tikori picked up the poster, but she had barely been looking at it for the length of a heartbeat before Vhara grabbed it away and slammed it backed down. “Look at this!” The Vedalman yelled as if her friend hadn’t been trying to. “Look at this!” She pointed at the bold print at the top of the poster. “Beware Beyond? Beware Beyond!”

“Calm down, Vhara.”

“I can’t calm down! Propaganda, that’s all this is! Propaganda! ‘Beware Beyond,’ they say, as if everything outside this city is some damned wasteland!”

“Not ‘as if,’ Vhara,” Tikori said. “That’s exactly what they’re saying. And posters like this are all over the city. Some show rain-choked forests, some dismal bogs, some creepy caves, but all of them warning the people not to venture out.”

“Yeah, and the people listen! These fools in this city see this stuff and they just believe it! Like this one,” she said, picking up the poster and slapping the painting with the back of her hand. “This mountain lake, or whatever it’s supposed to be, all fire and ash and steam! Do you really think a place like this actually exists?”

Tikori shrugged. “No way to know.”

The human thief started to turn away, but Vhara caught her wrist with her hand. “There is one way,” she said, strangely calm. “But I need your help.”

“Vhara, no,” Tikori warned. “We’d never even get out of the city. The constables patrol around the clock. We’d never make it.”

“I can get us outside the walls,” Vhara said. “I just need you to do what you do best.”

“Look,” her friend said, “I know I have this impressive mask and all, and if we’re being completely honest with one another, I’m not really that much of a thief.”

“I know,” Vhara said with no hint of venom. “But I never said that’s what you do best. What you do best, Tikori, is keep me alive.”

“Great,” she murmured. “And what’s going to keep me alive?”

Vhara smiled. “Let’s just say I’ll return the favor.”

* * *

“Run!”

As soon as Tikori gave the word, Vhara was moving. They had spent the rest of that day and half the night scouting along the walls for the right gate. It was not the gate with the fewest guards, but the one with the most careless. But even they snapped to attention the moment two angry, adolescent malcontents broke into a sprint toward the gate. The guards, whose sole task seemed to be to keep people in rather than keep people out, sprang into action, launching arrows and javelins in the direction of the thief and the half-blood.

Vhara ran ahead, and Tikori was just behind her. The human carried, wrapped around both hands, a long red scarf that looked like it was silk, but was much, much stronger. Vhara learned how much stronger as an arrow from one of the full-blood Vedalken constables came flying directly at her heart. For just a moment, she was certain that she was dead, but then she felt Tikori’s scarf wrap around her neck. A moment later, she felt herself pulled violently to one side, and the arrow struck the cobblestone.

The entire run toward the gate was like that. Whenever the guards nearly killed Vhara, which was entirely too often for her liking, she would be pulled, pushed, jostled, or tossed in some direction or another. Tikori moved like a dancer, even at a dead run, and it was the only thing keeping their run from dying. Vhara felt like a marionette in the hands of either the worst puppeteer in history, or the most masterful.

Eventually, though, the constables gave up on trying to hit Vhara. Some, perhaps, gave up because from their point of view, she seemed to evade everything. The smarter ones, though, gave up because they saw the hands that pulled the evader’s strings. Suddenly, as they drew quite near the gate, the deadly darts began to fly in Tikori’s direction, not Vhara’s. The time would come, any moment, when Vhara would have to make good on her promise. Tikori eluded the javelins and the arrows aimed at her, and all was well, until they reached the gate.

The gates of the city were massive. Gigantic slabs of thick wood and iron, the gates when opened (though the gates were never opened) would allow thirty Vedalken sitting on each other’s shoulders to pass through with no trouble. Of course, realistically, the bottommost Vedalken would be unable to walk at that point, and the entire thing would collapse. Vhara forced herself to not laugh at the absurdity of the visual. The size of the gate didn’t matter anyway, as the only way through them now was a small, normal-sized door set into the base of the larger one. And, standing directly in front of this smaller door, was a Lox with a very sharp looking pike.

Vhara and Tikori slowed to a stop as they stared down the elephant. He was big, and mean, and seemed to take his job very seriously. Fortunately, he was also slow. If the two were fast enough, they could get around him. Without a word to one another, both started moving, Vhara to the Lox’s left and Tikori to the right. The Lox must have been watching their entire approach, because he ignored Vhara almost completely and instead kept his pike pointed at the thief.

Tikori, knowing she did not stand a chance charging in on the Lox, instead made a feint in and then immediately leapt backward. Mercifully, the elephant took the bait and followed her. It was only a couple of steps, but it was enough. With the Lox out of position, Vhara slipped behind him and burst through the door. It wasn’t even locked. Apparently, the Vedalken leaders of the city thought that nobody would be foolish enough, with all the guards, all the arrows, and all the propaganda, to actually try to get out of the city. But, almost before she realized it, that was exactly where Vhara found herself.

As she looked back, she saw Tikori just barely evading the unexpectedly quick strikes of the Lox. Her friend was beginning to tire. It was no surprise. Keeping Vhara alive was not always the easiest of jobs, and the thief was far more used to and comfortable with sneaking around slowly than she was bolting at a dead run and positioning a nearly full-grown Vedalman at the same time. Vhara could see the exhaustion in her friend’s expression and in the beats of sweat forming on her face. Vhara had to fulfil her end of the bargain, and she had to do it now.

The half-blood closed her eyes and drew in what magical energy she could. As she did, she reached out toward the magic that surrounded Tikori. Vhara had to smile. The Vedalken, the full-bloods, were the only ones in the city that were, technically, allowed to cast spells. Loxodons, Goblins, Humans, and any of the half-breeds, none of these were allowed to cast within the city. Doing so resulted in a trial, which resulted in a guilty verdict and punishment that far outreached the word “severe.” But the Vedalman, the half-breeds between humans and Vedalken, had figured out a loophole.

Enchantments.

Oh, sure, casting the initial enchantment was still a spell and was still illegal, but it could be done anywhere. It need not happen in public, nor even at the time it was needed. And, if that enchantment was created and configured just right, all it needed was an activation, which was not, technically, against the law. So enchantments had become the magic of choice amongst the lower classes. And, while working (or, more accurately, avoiding working) in the fields, Vhara had picked up a good one.

Vhara reached out with her magic and her mind and felt the enchantment she had placed on Tikori. Drawing on the same energies she had as a child laborer, Vhara sent a wave of power toward her friend and activated the enchantment. For half a moment, Tikori’s form seemed to flicker, and then, just as the Lox’s pike flew forward and through the thief’s stomach, Tikori simply vanished. The Lox, his weapon finding nothing but air, stared dumbly at the spot in front of him, trying in vain to figure out what had happened.

By the time he did, Tikori had reappeared beside Vhara, outside the gate, and the two had started on their way.

* * *

“Mountains,” Tikori huffed as she struggled to put one foot in front of the other, “are not all they’re cracked up to be.”

“I thought you loved mountains,” Vhara said while silently agreeing. Of course, she had never thought they were all that great in the first place.

“That was before,” Tikori managed. “When you’re trapped in the city, mountains are great. The only mountains you see are in paintings and picture books. The walls and the spires become your mountains, and city mountains aren’t my kind. But, now that I’m here, and actually trying to climb the blasted things? Well, thanks, but no thanks.”

“We’re almost there,” Vhara assured her, although she had no evidence to back that up. They had, fortunately, taken the precaution of packing food and water for the trip, but in the four days since leaving the city, they had gone through much of it. Soon, they would need to make the decision. They could either press on and hope they find food and fresh water somewhere in the mountains, or turn back before they got so far and went through so many supplies that they wouldn’t make it back at all.

“How are we going to get back in?” Tikori asked suddenly. “When we go back, I mean. I know they don’t lock the gate and all, but are they really going to let us just walk through?”

Vhara shrugged. She hadn’t thought of that, but it was too late to worry about it. “I think they will, actually. The full-bloods don’t seem to care much about people entering the city. Just trying to leave it.”

“But everyone entering the city would have stories to tell about what it’s like outside, wouldn’t they? I mean, wouldn’t it kind of screw up the whole propaganda thing?”

Vhara shrugged. “They’d have no proof, though. The full-bloods and their agents would just dismiss the stories as lies.”

“Umm, Vhara?” Tikori asked. “If that’s the case, won’t they just dismiss us, too? How are we going to be any different?”

“Because we’re going to prove them wrong.”

“Okay,” Tikori said, sounding very much like it was not okay. “And how are we going to do that?”

Vhara smiled. “You remember a couple weeks ago when I asked you to steal that thing from the full-blood up on the Crescent Hill?”

“Oh, yeah, that crystal thing? Hey, you never did give me my cut from that!”

“That’s because I never fenced it,” Vhara said, still smiling. “That wasn’t just some crystal, Tikori. It’s enchanted.”

Tikori rolled her eyes. “Everything up on Crescent Hill is enchanted, Vhara! Do you know how risky it was to hit a mage’s home. I’m lucky I didn’t have to hop back to the clubhouse as a toad!”

“It’ll be worth it,” the Vedalman assured her. “Here, watch this.” She stopped walking, and Tikori, silently thankful, did the same. Vhara reached into a small pouch hanging from her belt and, after a moment’s fumbling, pulled out the crystal Tikori had stolen. Then she pointed it at the thief and a wave of light passed over Tikori’s body. Then Vhara pivoted and pointed the crystal at the mountainside that was stretching upward beside them. There, against the rock, was an image of Tikori, perfect in every detail.

“That’s…” the thief started, then stopped, shaking her head. “You’ve been planning this for some time, haven’t you, Vhara?”

The half-blood nodded and put the crystal carefully away. “Yes. I need to prove them wrong, Tikori, and this is the only way to do it.”

“You could have told me,” the other woman said as they both continued walking again.

“And endure weeks of you trying to talk me out of it? No. I know you too well. You’re the spontaneous type. If I’d have asked you to do this when I first thought of it, you’d have been as excited and interested as you were when I asked you to come. But that excitement would have worn off long before we tried to break out.”

“That’s not fair,” Tikori said, pouting slightly.

“I’m not wrong.”

“No, you’re not wrong, but it still isn’t fair.”

“Well,” Vhara said, “we’re here now, and that’s what’s important. And soon, we’ll get to this scalding tarn these posters promised us. Or rather, we’ll get to where they claim this place is. And that’s when we’ll prove them wrong.”

* * *

“I…I don’t…” Vhara stammered. Tikori was standing a short distance away from her, kicking at some rocks and refusing to look at Vhara. “I don’t understand.”

The weather had been getting hotter and the climb had been getting more difficult as they had neared the end of the fourth day out of the city. They had camped early, then started out before sunrise, hoping to use the comparative cool of the night to aid their speed. Shortly before dawn, they had arrived. Vhara had been convinced that there would have been no way to know when they arrived, because it would look nothing like the propaganda painting.

But now, she stood on a rocky overlook, holding up the poster she had torn from the wall. And, as she looked up from the picture, she saw the same scene. Before them, the massive tarn spread out into the distance, its waters roiled by steam and the shaking of the mountains around them. The pre-dawn sky was choked with smoke and ash, and in the distance, the fires of erupting volcanos caused the shadows of closer peaks to dance as though in a frenzy.

It looked exactly like the painting on the poster.

Vhara was crushed. She could barely move. The only motion she could manage was to shift her eyes from painting to panorama, from image to reality. She had no idea how long she stood there before she felt Tikori’s hand come to rest on her shoulder. A moment later, she heard her friend speak.

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

“But…I don’t…”

“Shh,” Tikori said. “It’s alright. Just because they didn’t lie about this doesn’t mean they tell the truth about everything. We’ll…we’ll catch them in a lie someday, and then, then we’ll prove them wrong.”

Tikori grabbed Vhara’s hand and started leading her away. But, as the half-blood turned, she caught a strange sensation. It was just a feeling against her skin, the slightest whiff in the air, but it was something. Tikori took two steps, but Vhara did not move, and Tikori turned back to her.

She turned back around again to look at the scalding tarn. She looked at it, and she looked at it, and then she looked at the propaganda painting. They looked the same. Something caught in Vhara’s mind, but it seemed just beyond her reach until, like a dam bursting, she realized it. “They look the same!”

“No, don’t you get it?” Vhara interrupted. “They look the same! Not just the same, Tikori, but identical!”

Tikori scratched her head. “They have good artists, I guess.”

“Artists who aren’t allowed to leave the city?” Vhara responded, then dropped her pack to the ground. She opened it like a starving animal might tear into its prey and started digging around. “Oh, Forces, please tell me I brought one, please tell me I brought one!”

“One what? Vhara, are you alright? I think we should…”

“Got it!” Vhara yelled excitedly. She pulled a strange object out of her pack. It looked like a flask, but was encircled along its edges with ridges making it look almost like a small sun. She stood up, grinning. “Tikori, watch this!”

She closed her eyes, drawing magic into herself as she had back at the gate. After a long minute of gathering, Vhara, with surprising strength, broke the odd object in half. The moment she did, a vapor of some sort began to pour from the broken vessel, and that vapor shot like an arrow toward the scalding tarn in front of them. Suddenly, the vapor crystalized and hit something solid, like a wall, only a few yards in front of the women.

Both Vhara and Tikori watched in stunned amazement as the scene before them shifted. The waters of the tarn calmed themselves, and the steam ceased its incessant hiss. The smoke and ash in the sky folded in on itself and vanished. The fires from the distant volcanic peaks faded, replaced with the brilliant light of the morning sun. The scene before them was breathtaking, and beautiful.

“What the hell was that?” Tikori asked, dumbfounded.

“An illusion,” Vhara said, grinning. “A powerful enchantment. I knew I felt something familiar. Those full-blood bastards. It wasn’t enough to put their propaganda up in their own city. They had to make ‘Beyond’ itself look bad.”

She took out the crystal from her pouch and pointed it at the idyllic tarn before them. The light of the crystal swept across the landscape, capturing an image of its beauty for, hopefully, everyone in the city to see.

Well, at least Lawrence has a flicker of hope as he rolls toward his fate. I have an idea of where I might go with this story were I writing it, but I don't want to mention it on the off-chance it's where you're going to go. Suffice it to say, I'm looking forward to see what the future holds for these characters.

Well, at least Lawrence has a flicker of hope as he rolls toward his fate. I have an idea of where I might go with this story were I writing it, but I don't want to mention it on the off-chance it's where you're going to go. Suffice it to say, I'm looking forward to see what the future holds for these characters.

It's in an interesting space; so far, it benefits greatly from not being Blink's introduction story, but doesn't want to depend on prior knowledge, either. We've already seen her get interrupted thrice, once too late, so where could this story distinguish itself? I'm not set on his survival, but a satisfying death would be hard to pull off, and I strongly doubt Lawrence would let himself be tied up.

As far as future plans go, I have two short paragraphs that could be the beginning of the next scene. (Not dialogue this time, which is probably why I haven't gotten any further; I clearly need more practice in that area.) At one point I considered asking you what she would do with a resistant mark, but hadn't gotten to that point yet. So, would you prefer to wait for individual installments inspired by the random cards, or watch me fumble my way through your undoubtedly superior idea?

It's in an interesting space; so far, it benefits greatly from not being Blink's introduction story, but doesn't want to depend on prior knowledge, either. We've already seen her get interrupted thrice, once too late, so where could this story distinguish itself? I'm not set on his survival, but a satisfying death would be hard to pull off, and I strongly doubt Lawrence would let himself be tied up.

Yeah, Blink being interrupted did sort of become a running theme there, didn't it? Of course, what we haven't seen yet is her falling into some sort of a trap...

As for not letting himself get tied up, he probably wouldn't. Unless, of course, he knew he could get out of it...

As far as future plans go, I have two short paragraphs that could be the beginning of the next scene. (Not dialogue this time, which is probably why I haven't gotten any further; I clearly need more practice in that area.) At one point I considered asking you what she would do with a resistant mark, but hadn't gotten to that point yet.

I think your dialog is fine. I've been enjoying the back-and-forth between the bodyguards here.

As for what Blink would do with a target not falling for her wiles, I haven't thought a lot about it. I'm no expert on serial killers, but I know that they are excellent - amazing, even - manipulators, and that one way or another they get people to do what they want them to. Of course, there comes a time when that's not possible, like when they've been made as a threat, I would imagine. I suspect that she would keep her cool the first time or two that he refused her, would try to come at it from different angles, but ultimately, serial killers love control. When she realized that she was not in control the situation, she would likely do whatever she needed to do to gain "control," which would probably be dangerously violent.

On the other hand, though, we've seen Blink flee when cornered and confronted. She did make an attempt at stabbing Gale before she found out, fairly quickly, that she was overmatched. A pugilist, she is not, nor did she try to bring any magic to bare against Gale. So it is quite possible that Blink is not very dangerous when her victim knows she's coming, which makes this situation with Lawrence very interesting.

So, would you prefer to wait for individual installments inspired by the random cards, or watch me fumble my way through your undoubtedly superior idea?

Hey, I said I had an idea. I never said I had a good idea.

Anyway, I'm enjoying seeing this develop as it goes. As always, if you ever wanted to do a story, either this one or another one, and want my feedback in one way or another, always feel free to shoot me a PM.

I didn't quite manage to get my Saturday piece to the point where I was happy with it -- it's unfinished, and the second section is going to eventually need a rework. But I like the first part, and I'll try to finish/fix the rest.

Bad Beats

I.

It takes a special kind of gumption, to pick the devil’s pocket. – Jakkard proverb

The fox with the notched ear was working the bar. Brushtail walked over and pulled up a seat.

The fox – who Brushtail was paying twenty boks a week – was cleaning a glass that didn’t need cleaning. Brushtail nodded, and the fox poured him a double. Brushtail paid for the drink. The twenty boks did not include liquor.

“How’re we looking tonight?” Brushtail said. He only sipped the whiskey. Brushtail drank mostly for show.

“Slow,” the fox said, and went back to polishing glasses.

“Any bona-fide angels?”

“Had a live one earlier,” the fox said, “but you missed him.” He nodded in the direction of the high-stakes table. “Dropped a packet to Fingers and Jacks playing no-limit, then went upstairs to lick his wounds. Table got cold, so Fingers and Jacks went out dancing.” The fox shrugged. “So you got the room to yourself – what’s left of it.”

Brushtail looked annoyed. “Jacks and me have an arrangement,” he said. “Supposed to, anyway. I cut him in on my angels, he does the same for me.” He glanced up at the bartender. “I don’t suppose Jacks was looking for me?”

“Not that I heard of.”

“And he worked this sucker with Fingers?”

“Just like I said. Cleaned the guy out.”

“Devils take ‘em,” Brushtail said. “Should’ve known Jacks was a cheat.”

The fox shrugged his shoulders, as if to say it was all the same to him.

Nursing his whiskey, Brushtail surveyed the room. The big tables were either empty, or occupied by better-than-good players, who Brushtail couldn’t reliably beat. Not without sharping, anyway. And Brushtail made it a policy not to sharp the regulars at the places he liked. Even if you weren’t caught, you were bound to become unpopular, and that was bad for business.

No, Brushtail played straight against the regulars he could beat, and the ones he couldn’t beat, he didn’t play.

The sharping he saved for the tourists.

There was just one unfamiliar face in the room that night – a big, hollow-eyed rattler, in a slick, broad-brimmed hat. The rattler had a shorter, broader snout than was normal, which gave her a harsh sort of profile. Everything about her was blunt, and mean.

A pair of conspicuously-armed guards stood watch behind the snake, keeping their faces blank the way they were paid to do. The rattler – who was stacking chips – looked bored.

The rattler’s hatband, Brushtail noticed, was snakeskin. A morbid touch.

“Who’s the rattler?” Brushtail said.

“Her you don’t want any piece of,” the bartender said. He leaned forward; his voice dropped to a whisper. “Floorman says she owns half the rackets out Dayko way – showed up this morning, muscle in tow.”

Brushtail nodded. “And?” he said.

“And,” the bartender said, “floorman tells me she deposited two suitcases with the cage, each of them heavy as sin.” His voice got even quieter. “Fifteen thousand. In cash.”

Brushtail let out a low whistle. “How long she here for?” he said.

“Floorman says just tonight. She’s booked on the morning train back to Dayko.”

“Seems like,” Brushtail said, “if someone were to lighten those suitcases for the return journey, they’d be doing her a favor.”

The bartender shook his head.

“She’s good,” he said. “Only plays two-handed, and doesn’t make mistakes. Fingers took a crack at her, and she took a pile off of him.”

“Good,” Brushtail said. He sipped his drink. “Fingers try to sharp her, or did he play her straight?”

“Straight, I think,” the bartender said. “Fingers’d be too yellow to try to sharp a hard case like her.”

“Good,” Brushtail said. “Then she won’t be expecting it.”

The bartender’s eyes went wide. The ear with the notch in it twitched.

“You got a death wish,” he said to Brushtail, “then that’s your business. But, if you’re going to take a run at her,” and he nodded at the rattler, “then I want this week’s grease in advance.” The bartender’s head shook again. “You already got your twenty’s worth, and, if she cuts off your tail, to hang from her hat?” The bartender shrugged. “Well, can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Brushtail fished twenty boks from his pocket. He finished his whiskey, wiped his lips with a napkin, folded the coins in the napkin, then slid the napkin back across the bar, along with the empty drink.

“The rattler,” he said, standing up. “She got a name?”

“Folks call her Snake Eyes,” the bartender said, pocketing the money.

“Not very original, are they?” Brushtail said. “Anyway, thanks for the drink.”

II.

There’s no such thing as a gamble, if you’ve seen the next card to come. – Jakkard proverb

Brushtail and the rattler had been playing for hours, and Brushtail was losing. He wasn’t losing much – just enough to keep the snake interested in the game – but he was losing, and it hadn’t taken effort on his part. Like the bartender had said, the rattler was good. She played a tight game, and she didn’t make mistakes. Brushtail doubted if he could beat her playing straight. So he kept the pots small, kept the stakes low, and focused mainly on keeping his head out of the noose.

The chance, he knew, would come. It always did.

The rattler drank, but not heavily. She didn’t drink to get drunk – more to pass the time. Brushtail did the same, nursing a single large whiskey for hours on end. He had learned over the years that it was useful to drink – it made the gamblers nervous if you didn’t.

They talked a little, at first – enough to exchange names, and pleasantries – but that was it. Brushtail wasn’t a talker, and the rattler, it seemed, wasn’t either. So, for hours on end, they got by with little more than the occasional “bet,” “raise,” or “call,” and that suited Brushtail fine.

The two guards – who stood behind the rattler, and never moved an inch – didn’t say a word. If the game being played was of interest to them, they didn’t give any sign. It was clear they weren’t there to watch the cards.

Finally – just as daylight was breaking, and the shutters thrown open to a dusty dawn – Brushtail’s chance came. It was his deal – Brushtail wasn’t stupid enough to try to sharp the rattler’s deal, on the off chance that she might be trying to sharp him herself – and Brushtail found himself with a four on the board, and an ace in the hole. A nice, low hand, and he opened it accordingly. The rattler – who was showing a six – checked her hole card, and decided to come along.

“Call,” the rattler said, and slid forward a stack of chips. Her tongue flicked the air. That was the sort of tick which would’ve got most players stewing, but Brushtail had been watching the rattler all night, and the flick was not a tell.

The rattler was just a rattler, and the tongue was just a thing rattlers did.

Brushtail collected the chips in the center of the table, then peeled off the next two cards: a deuce for himself, an ace for the rattler. Brushtail knew he had the best of it, but, when the rattler bet, he only called.

The next card to come was a bad one: a second four for Brushtail, with a second ace for the rattler. They had both paired, but the rattler’s aces would play low, meaning that she now had the low hand. The only way Brushtail wasn’t behind was if the rattler’s hole card was either a second six or the fourth ace. Brushtail knew it wasn’t a six, because the rattler wouldn’t have called his opening bet if she was already paired – that just wasn’t the way she played. And Brushtail knew the rattler’s hole card wasn’t the fourth ace, because Brushtail kept one ace on the bottom of the deck.

“Bet,” the rattler said, and she separated three tall stacks of chips, which she slid to the center of the table.

Brushtail looked at the bet, then at the rattler, then at the bet. He made a show of checking his hole card – a tell he’d been working all night to establish – then looked back up at the rattler again, as though trying to pry the truth from her eyes. But the rattler’s face was cool, blunt, and impassive. Brushtail checked his hole card again – still the same ace – then took a long, thoughtful sip from his drink. That was another tell he’d been laying ground for.

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